


The Artist and the Carpenter

by Kiya Byrne (werekat)



Category: Naruto
Genre: Love Letters, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-19
Updated: 2014-03-19
Packaged: 2018-01-16 08:06:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1338151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/werekat/pseuds/Kiya%20Byrne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world of intriguing characters, love blossoms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Artist and the Carpenter

In the village of Konoha, there lived a vastly diverse population, a young man thought to have been raised by dogs, one who played with shadows, one who’s body hosted a demonic fox spirit, and another who’s family had a long history of becoming living hives for their insect cohorts. They and the other uniquely talented individuals of the village, a largely cosmopolitan and approachable bunch, were often well at ease with each other. That is, of course until _he_ showed up, as he so often did, at the most inopportune times and with all the insight into accepted human interaction of a gnat. Faced with blunt and often embarrassing questions, the other youths attempted to work through their own discomfort to help their emotionally-stunted comrade. There was one individual though, who despite the awkwardness and discomfort sought out the curious, pale man. It is here we truly begin our tale.   
  
The pale young man, an artist by the name of Sai, was a curious sort of character. His smile, unlike that of his friends, never quite reached his eyes, nor did his placid features betray his hidden emotions, beyond perhaps the slightest tightness of eyes, crease of mouth, or pinch of brow, pale skin never revealing even the slightest colour unless flushed with the heat of the onsen. However, for those rare few who looked and truly saw the depths within his fathomless dark eyes, it was clear that the mask he wore so well had cracks, each growing deeper as frustration set in at himself, at the others for not understanding. For though the artist was of the same age as the rest, he had not been raised as other children might, but as a weapon. You see, this master of ink was also a unique character. His creations, once commanded, could rise from the page, taking flight or scurrying through the underbrush as small animals are wont to do, carrying messages or intercepting enemies. He had been trained that the emotions so intrinsic to the others, his friends, were a hindrance, something that should not be allowed to exist, and thus shut down that part of himself. At least he thought he had, though the world that had for so long appeared rather monochromatic to the artist was beginning to draw vibrant colours back to it, colours he remembered from distant childhood and clung to as lifelines. Feelings of peace and tranquility from being around others, of speaking with others. Of exploring the forest with not just an artist’s eyes, but with a man’s heart. It was returning, that inexplicable rush of emotion, though he still could not fully or sometimes even partially understand it, it was there; though he could not verbally express his thoughts all that well, he managed to get his point across in his own awkward way.   
  
It was not until much later in his self-imposed retraining that Sai encountered a man he had not expected to see again, or at least not for quite some time. Yamato, the woodsmith, had been one of few to see past the pale mask, past the questioning dark eyes, to the confusion deeply entrenched in the other man’s heart. Whether this was due to Yamato’s own experiences and similarly rigid training or just innate awareness, he did not know. The carpenter had never pushed, never questioned, just continued to remain seated on the front porch of his small cabin in the woods near the village, answering Sai’s occasional queries to the best of his abilities. After a time, the artist began to bring canvas, brush, and ink with him, sitting, back against the ancient trees, and letting the strokes flow as they would. It was not until he looked down and discovered he had unknowingly preserved the likeness of the carver seated before him on the canvas that his own confusion surfaced. Until now, he had painted animals, both in likeness and as messengers, or abstract works to pass the time. Why would this one, this image, be any different? Not knowing quite what to do with this information, not having seen mention of such in his research, nor hearing such described in conversation, Sai, brow creased, sat, pondering the page before him until the man opposite spoke, inquiringly,   
  
“Are you alright, Sai?”  
  
“Hmm?” came the faint response. “Oh, yes. I was just trying to figure out why I had painted your portrait.” Sai continued, turning the canvas toward Yamato.  
  
Taking in the obviously unconscious care with which the younger man had formed the image, he smiled softly and said merely, “I think you will have to answer that for yourself, Sai.”  
  
Still confused, though contemplating the curious alteration in his thoughts and emotions regarding the other man, Sai returned to his lonely flat, pristine in its organisation. That was the last the young artist saw of the other man. There was no trace of the inhabitation when he next returned to the forest clearing. Even the small cabin with its carved accents had been removed. It was as though he had never existed at all, though Sai knew he still treasured the inked lines of the portrait he had captured when last they met, though he knew not why. He would have continued back to his empty flat disheartened had he not spotted a glimmer …a shine? Something that was definitely out of place in the mottled earth of the ancient forest floor. Something that called to the young man like a beacon. Unable and unwilling to resist the pull of this mysterious marker, Sai approached the place where he had seen the light flash, waiting for the canopy to shift once again, moving the foliage now blocking the sunlight. Seeing the refracted light once again, Sai moved forward, quickly identifying the source of the visual oddity: a kunai, though he recognised immediately the differences between the example held in his palm and its kin. He knew this knife because it was of a peculiar material that, when used on wood, never dulled. He noticed a scroll wrapped around the handle. Upon unfurling it, he read words never spoken between them, though felt deeply and the absence suddenly hit the young pale-skinned man harder than he had thought possible. Placing his palm to the earth in an effort to steady himself in his kneeling position, Sai felt …something …else. Something solid, like … _wood_? With a careful hand, he extracted the carved figure of a soaring eagle from the underbrush, an eagle adorned with the wing-swirls so common to Sai’s own inked avians. After checking the area to make sure he had not missed anything, the young man held the bird safely in his arms, kunai and note secured in the small bag he carried at his back, beginning the treck back to his dwelling.  
  
It was a day in late spring, much the same in climate as the day they parted, that Sai, walking through the forest, as he was wont to do, stumbled upon the form of a haggard-looking man with shaggy brown hair and scarred hands, cloaked in an earth-coloured cloth. Soil compressing as the artist knelt on the fertile ground, a pale hand reached out to a shoulder lax with sleep, rousing the slumbering man from his mid-day rest. Slowly opening, dark eyes met across the distance between the two men, a tired hand reaching up to caress a pale cheek, a roughened throat murmuring a soft and heartfelt, “Sai.”   
  
Seeing that it was in fact Yamato lying exhausted among the trees, quickly fading back to unconsciousness, Sai made the decision to bring the larger man back with him, allowing him to rest in comfort, something it appeared had been far from common since they parted months ago. Though much slower than he would have moved on his own, Sai managed to lead the half-asleep woodmaster to his home, removing the soiled cloak and placing him on the couch in his small room. In the short time between leaving the older man and retrieving a pillow, he was fast asleep, soft snores emanating from his resting form. Carefully placing the pillow beneath the tired head, removing mud-encrusted sandals, and locating a warm blanket, Sai retreated to his studio, allowing Yamato to sleep undisturbed.   
  
It was not until several hours later that Sai, having been engrossed in artistic pursuits, was alerted to movement in the room currently inhabited by a certain master of woodcraft. Walking on silent feet to the kitchen in search of a glass of water and some pain medication, the pale man returned to the couch in time to see Yamato fully awaken, rubbing his eyes and looking about the room in bewilderment.  
  
Seeing the confusion on the other man’s face, Sai leaned down, having placed the water and tablets on the low table beside the couch, to aid his guest in returning upright.   
  
“Sai? How… ?  
  
“I found you in the forest, Yamato-san. You looked tired.”   
  
_Well_ , thought Yamato, _that explains why I am here… but_ “Where am I exactly?”  
  
“My home. I thought it would be more comfortable that the forest floor.”  
  
“Yes, thank you.” Yamato responded, getting a slight nod in return, accepting the water gladly and declining the offered medication.  
  
Feeling a slight tension in the air between them, Yamato looked around the small space surrounding the couch, eyes locking on a beautifully carved eagle, perched regally, wings outstretched as if mid-flight, and though he could not see from this distance, he knew there would be identifying spirals on the open wings. At this, he knew his message had been received all those months ago, and though he did not know Sai’s response, his current hospitality gave him hope.   
  
Following the older man’s gaze, Sai let himself smile truly before walking toward the bird and reaching behind it to a formerly hidden compartment, removing the rare kunai and its precious bundle, re-attached after each successive perusal.   
  
Crossing the room again, the artist held out the special blade to the carpenter, waiting patiently for the other man to unravel the scrolled message. Hearing a gasp from the seated man, Sai observed the rapid emotions crossing the other’s face, hope, longing… _love_. It was one thing to know it, to feel it himself, but it was an entirely different matter to see it reflected in the dark eyes now looking back at him, an expression of pure joy on the still tired face.  
  
Sai felt his own features break into a mirrored smile before he lowered himself to the couch, moving to sit astride the other man, and leaning down, hands cupping a beloved face, to share their first kiss of many. And though both may have wanted to progress further, one was still immensely drained and in severe need of a shower and the other, experiencing a new wave of emotion, was content to let things develop as they would.   
  
Quietly retreating to his studio while the newly returned man rid himself of road dust and grime, Sai uncovered the oddly shaped plank of wood he thought must have been part of the other man’s original carving supply. Setting the unrolled page carefully on the workbench, more for sentimental reasons than anything else, as he had long ago memorised the words written therein, the young artist placed the wooden board on his easel and, selecting a brush, began to write. It was this image that met Yamato’s eyes when he exited the bathroom, towel-clad and searching for some manner of sleep-ware, it being the twilight of sundown. Leaning against the doorframe, the carpenter watched the artist work, ink flowing over wooden canvas, reciting much-loved lines from memory and indelibly staining the timber beneath his palms. After rinsing his brush, having completed his self-assigned task, the artist stood, turning toward the door and, upon seeing his carpenter standing before him, stepped around the work bench, carefully avoiding the still wet canvas, and enfolding himself within the other man’s arms. The message engrained in wood, looking on as the new lovers shared a deep, long awaited kiss.  
  
 _I must go, Sai, and though I do not know when I will be able to return, I want you to know that I cherish the time we have spent together and look forward many more days spent working in the dappled shade with you. Though this is not the best time to say it, I have fallen in love with you, with the person you are deep in your heart. I can see it in your eyes, especially when you are absorbed in your work. Until we meet again, Sai. Aishiteru. Yamato.  
  
I am still unsure of my emotions in many cases, but I do know that after talking to the others and researching relationships, I am deeply attracted to you, I miss you, and I love you. I await your return.  
Sai_  
  
At the base of the wood, a small engraving sat, two inscriptions in two different hands:  
  
 _Wait for me._  
  
Always. 

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted over on y!gal under werekat. ...I didn't quite realise how much innuendo made its way into this until it was finished. Also, I know both of them tend to be a bit reserved... more than a bit in Sai's case, but learning emotions and internal monologues and all that... consequently the letter turned out a bit OCC, but... Let me know if you like it.


End file.
